Healing My Heart As I Wash My Greens
How Moments of Mindful Food Prep Help Me Be Grateful
Part of the joy of gardening is the harvest. Finally enjoying the fruits of one’s labor, the deliciousness of a sweet vegetable borne of earth you have amended and nurtured.
The greens I enjoy now, at the end of April, began as tiny starters from the nursery in February. Now, at their peak, I have a great abundance of salad, kale, and bok choy to feast on. When I cut the tender leaves, the plants bleed their white milky fluid to heal themselves, and I think of their power to continue as long as they are given the chance, not yanked up from the earth completely.
We all have cycles like this, where we grow, come into knowing, come into ourselves in our fullness. Where we break, where we struggle, and when we need time to heal. Then comes the flowering, the spreading of seeds, propagating before ultimately our cycle is done.
A tree will make a scar when a limb falls or is cut back. So do we. Whether it is on our bodies or our hearts. Whether the wound is superficial or deep. Some wounds are quick to heal, while others take much more time, even years till the scars they have left behind are nearly invisible. But we are fully capable — given time, given care.
After I harvested so many greens yesterday, I took my time while rinsing them free of dirt, of the detritus of my maple tree that had fallen on them as it has come into full leaf, now shading my winter beds. So different than just tearing open a bag of prepackaged salad, cutting open all the little plastic bags for the dressing and toppings. Bags that many times have spoiled in my refrigerator, forgotten.
When I grow food, I am much more connected to it. To how much time it took for it to develop, ripen. How much rain, how much care. In the United States, it is estimated we throw away 30–40% of our food each year, or 133 billion pounds. The amount is unfathomable while there are so many that go hungry. Lines so long at food banks across the country. When I wash the dirt off my tender greens and plants, I know they are not contaminated with pesticides or runoff from farms with manure or E. coli. I also see their fragility. How if not stored well, they will wilt and die.
In these moments, when I am not in a rush, when I take the time to be present with my food. It changes my relationship with it. I am more grateful after I acknowledge its life, and then take it in to sustain my own. As Michael Pollan has said, “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” I try my best to do this.
It is in this spirit of care that I try to take only what I need. Not throw things away, waste the food that keeps me alive — with all the work from those who have grown it, harvested it, and brought it to where I may buy it, prepare it, and eat it.
In this way, I also take care of my heart. Allow myself silence and space. Allow myself to stop and express gratitude for the bounty before me. Remind myself that yes, my body and heart can heal, as I harvest my greens, wash them, or cook my rice.
